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Chapter One
Cherise
I never should have tried to plan a wedding long distance.
My phone is blowing up with notifications while I’m trying to temper a mountain of chocolate. I decide to ignore it.
I just can’t deal with more bad news about my venue of choice back home on the other side of the country. Right now, all I can think about is finishing twelve dozen hazelnut truffles for the Winston wedding. As head pastry chef at Orchid, it’s my job to make legendary sweets to help this boutique hotel build its brand as an all-in-one wedding destination.
That’s kind of our thing at Orchid: a fun, romantic, and colorful destination off of the Las Vegas Strip. Away from the hustle and bustle but close to the action. Adding more stress to the situation, the Orchid’s manager, Armand, bursts through the swinging kitchen door looking alarmed despite his dapper pinstripe suit with the festive shirt and tie.
I take one look at Armand and decide no, I don’t have time for whatever crisis he is imagining is happening right now in the main ballroom. I go back to my truffles. “I don’t want to know about it unless it’s good news. I’m up to my tits in chocolate!”
Armand says only one word, “Incoming,” before the swinging door opens a second time. And in saunters none other than Bishop Frye.
Shit.
The imposing man in the three-piece bespoke suit pauses, looks at me, and says, “I’m sure there’s a smooth response to that, but I’d rather not risk a lawsuit.”
Was that a joke? I can’t tell because Bishop Frye is not smiling. Not even smirking. But his eyes are on me so intently I can’t seem to tear my gaze away to focus on my truffles.
A collective murmur rises throughout the kitchen as the staff takes notice of the glowering presence. Most of the grunts in the room wisely begin to work faster. A few of them, the suck-ups, greet him with a “Good morning, Mr. Frye, sir.”
Me? I’m just standing here with my piping bag in my hands, frozen in action, processing the fact that I’ve just said “up to my tits” in front of my boss’s boss’s boss. There may be a few more bosses in the hierarchy, but I haven’t met those people. Let alone the hotelier who leans against my kitchen island as if he owns it, staring at me. His Instagram-worthy full lips are set in a straight, unamused line across his face.
Of course, he’s acting like he owns the place. He does own it, you ninny. Say something!
I open my mouth to speak, but my words have all disappeared. Momentary muteness is so unlike me.
Part of me reacts to him in fear, the other part in fascination. Not a gelled hair is out of place. His suit is tailored with aching perfection, complementing the lines in his shoulders, the defined torso, and thick, athletic thighs. His pocket hot pink pocket square matches the lining of his jacket, which I can see as he unfastens his two front buttons. He wears an expensive but classic watch. I only know the brand because I’ve seen it advertised in so many bridal magazines in the last eighteen months. I can tell you the designer and which celebrity wore it best. I should let the magazine know that Bishop Frye wears that eighteen-thousand-dollar watch better than Brad Pitt.
“I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to be crass. My mouth gets away from me when I’m stressed in the kitchen.”
He raises one striking eyebrow. “This job stressing you out?”
Oh shit. Why did I say that? He’s going to think I hate it here when I don’t. I love my job. Really love it. I thank my lucky stars every day that I have it.
“No, sir. I mean, yes. I mean, shit. Oh god, sorry.”
He raises the other eyebrow to match the first.
I keep waiting for a smirk, a word, anything to let me off the hook. Because those eyes? That stare? Are making the backs of my knees sweat.
“Let me back up. I just meant the job is exactly the right amount of stress it should be, under which I thrive.”
Still unsmiling, Bishops responds. “I’ve worked in kitchens before; I imagine it can get much coarser than talking about tits.”
Am I crazy, or did I just see his eyes drift down to my chest? Ordinarily, I would say that it’s inappropriate for my boss to lose control of his gaze like that. But then, I notice him blink several times, give a slight shake of his head, as if he’s having an internal conversation with himself. Like he caught himself looking at my chest, and now he’s trying to stop.
Men.
I know what I should do right now. I should nonchalantly flash my engagement ring. Just to let him know, I see what he did and that I’m spoken for. I should do that, but I don’t. It’s not a thing I do. It’s not even a thing my fiancé would expect me to do.
My eyes drift down toward his hand, where I see he’s not wearing a wedding ring, and my brain notices there’s not even a tan line or a ridge there. Interesting, as he’s got to be in his 40s. And why should I care? What difference does it make?
Armand wisely breaks the strange tension in the room. “Sir, what can our kitchen crew help you with today? They don’t often get the pleasure of a visit from you.”
